Trapped
by wittyness
Summary: "Your life depends on me and my life depends on this. Some questions have got to remain unanswered unless you want me to die—and if I do, I'm taking you with me—whether you, or I, like it or not." Warnings:Death blood sadness
1. Trap

My sky blue eyes flashed open.

What did I inhale last night?

A good three fourths of my entire memory was lost; leaving me with an enormous amount of questions.

I had no idea where I was—and the little memory I maintained was scrambled like a puzzle. I needed a start so I could end with answers.

But where to start without so much as a lone memory of my past?

The pure darkness of the cold, stomach-wrenching room shined an irrational purple with the faintest blue light shining just as abnormally bright from the end table; both causing my head to cry out in pain due to a killer migraine.

And then there was pink; colliding into the blue in a somewhat relaxing yet five-dimensional realm.

There wasn't much to see. I couldn't make out anything—my vision was terribly blurred, only allowing me to see light that agitated my extreme headache—concussion?—even more.

My numbed cold fingers prevented me from moving even an inch, and I started to panic; feeling completely immobile, concealed, confused, despondent and scared.

I couldn't figure out if I was going crazy, or if it was just my injury that made the light move. Up and down the pink and blue light rays went...completely soundless as they drew me into a trance.

The absolute only memory that rang into my head at the moment was...running.

But to where, or from what?

Running lifelessly, with no cause. No trace of memory, or dash of purpose.

And then a high-pitched scream—was it my own?—and blackness. But unlike cliché rape stories, the blackness came before the unconsciousness.

Passing out the way I had was engraved in my injured memory. A sudden blackout and then a hand around my throat as it clenched. The large hand smelled of weed and torn flesh, as its thumb curled around the left side of my neck. I remember being roughly jerked towards the ground right before something hard, cold, so very painful, made contact with my head.

Apparently the pain had time to soak in…and I was now paying the vicious price. Some over-dosage on Advil and/or Xanax sounded chillingly delightful right about now.

I stared at the mobile light as I blinked rapidly. I hoped for my vision to clear up, at least to where I could see my surroundings.

I forced my eyes to close, biting my lip until I tasted blood. But I didn't care. I was focused on the unbearably violent pain in my head—like someone banging a skateboard into my skull, repeatedly; endlessly.

I tried to lift up my head, which earned me an unplanned moan at the pain as I fell back onto something hard; all the more comfort.


	2. Struggling

TearStainedAngel24 asked for GerIta so I made a wholllle story but it's not like my other one this is sad only because I had this idea for awhile and wanted it to be with a couple that would fit this Germany I don't know he might be occ so I'm sorry but enjoy!

Struggling.

For minutes. Agonizing hours, it seemed as my head-ailment gnawed at my bare flesh.

I felt tied down—suffocating. I didn't know what came next; rape or abuse. Maybe it was all a dream. A sick, twisted dream. Maybe...just maybe—

"You've overslept," a deep, French accented voice said, causing me to jump out of my thoughts. I hadn't even noticed the person or where it came from.

"I see you're not going to talk," I placed the gender as a male by the malicious, vexing laugh he choked out. "Not like you can, anyway."

"There's no harm in me doing all the talking, now is there?"

His voice drew nearer and was now mockingly nonchalant...like nothing had gone wrong. Like he hadn't kidnapped me, and wasn't planning on tearing apart my insides.

I was shaking. I didn't know if it was just the ice cold temperatures, or the fear rising up in my throat. I couldn't scream, lash out, cry or even move.

After he had spoken the words, shuffling was heard to my left. "Don't worry, Luddy; it'll be over in..."

Luddy?

"One," a footstep closer;

I remembered nothing; but just the way that name sounded, it seemed

"Two," a click;

almost...familiar?

"Three" a needle tore my flesh, so painlessly.

And suddenly, I felt like a castaway; as the ocean washed me ashore onto a beach.

All of my pain had subsided, and the world was more than content as I inadvertently slipped into pure bliss.


	3. Thoughts before actions

"Thoughts before actions, fag," the hiss of the previous man's voice, as the door shut with an eerie creek.

For the second time, I opened up my eyes like a newborn kitten. Unaware of where in this world I resided, and confused by the sounds I heard—but the sights I didn't.

Dim light streamed into the room from a small window to my left, and I assumed that it had to be no earlier than seven o'clock p.m.

You'd think that when you wake up in a strange room with questionable past events and strange voices, your immediate thought would be 'is this my demise?' But no; when my eyes opened with much hesitation, the first thing that came to mind was the perspiration dripping from my forehead.

My blonde hair was hot, wet, and sweaty...just like the rest of my body. What a contrast to when I had awoke earlier to numbing temperatures. I felt my limbs this time, and I gripped the sheets with my right hand, letting out a small groan of pleasure as something icy cold touched it.

"Mi sei mancato," a boy's voice—unaccented, and much more quiet and feminine than the first—spoke, catching me off guard (again).

I didn't reply. Not just because I didn't know what language he was speaking, but also because my mouth was dry, my forehead dripped with sweat, and I couldn't stop fluttering my eyes as reality soaked into my brain.

I saw a figure stand up, and the boy moved into the sunshine's evening rays. His look surprised me; for he looked even more broken than I felt.

Bruises covered his small face, and his hair hung slightly below his unreadable eyes...looking as though he could use a much needed haircut.

A black and gray long-sleeved shirt hung over his small frame so loosely and carefree.

I couldn't sit up much, but I realized I was in a bed.

Oh shit! Rape, rape, rape!

I panicked, turning my head to the right of the small, dark room...where the boy stood.

Silence.

Twitching fingers, swallowing hard.

Nothing.

Breathing rapidly, staring intensely.

He stood there, so tranquil; staring downwards, as I stared at him.

Though my innocence was about to be taken away, I just lie there—waiting for him to drop his pants and break me. I couldn't run, and couldn't move anything but my head. It was one of those deer-caught-in-headlights moments.

"Welcome to hell," he finally muttered, quietly and bravely.

I wasn't expecting that.

"You can move," he spoke in his quiet voice, running a hand through his dirty, pitch black hair. "Just take note that you can escape. But I'd suggest not trying; you won't get very far. He'll find you again and give you a second chance..." I stared at him from the bed, wondering who he meant by 'he', and trying to read his face. "...but it won't be any near as nice as the first one."

"W-What happened?" I spoke; my words involuntarily coming out high-pitched, a scream...a stammer.

"Rely on your memory for that," he replied, looking up at the ceiling and then back down at the floor.

"I c-can't remember any t-thing," I spoke, choking up. "Not even my o-own n-name."

"Your name is Ludwig Beilschmidt; you're a spoiled rich kid with a perfect life and all its twisted perks—pretty girlfriend, successful parents, large house, popularity. You're eighteen years of age as of November 4th; you have amnesia, caused by a...uh...hit to the head; and your nickname is Luddy, because you dislike the names 'Lud' and 'Wig'."

Huh? Even I didn't remember that much about myself.

"You might as well work on your memory skills; because that's the only way you're getting out of here" he turned around, sitting on the floor. Then he silently added; "alive."

"W-What do you m-mean? Where a-am I?"

No reply; he just looked up at the ceiling, and back down—again.

"What are you g-going to d-do to me?"

The boy looked so robotic, as he sat on the carpeted floor (back to me) in the little sunlight the tinted window let through.

"Perhaps you should try asking something I can answer."

"What about food? Are you just going to let me st-starve?"

"Don't be so asinine; a boy such as yourself can go at the least, 144 hours without food."

I looked away, shocked. What did the boy want with me?

Silence.

For what seemed like ten minutes—until I finally couldn't take the heat one moment longer. "Why is it so h-hot?"

"It's the middle of July," he stated, bluntly...as if it was a sufficient answer.

I looked down and noticed that the cold thing I felt on my arm earlier, were handcuffs.

One cuff was secured around my right hand, the other to the bed.

Ha, yeah...that's not twisted.

I screamed loudly in a sudden desperate attempt to break free. The boy looked like he couldn't kill a fly—let alone me and my muscle. I sat up immediately and tugged at the handcuffs like my life depended on it. It kind of did.

I was sitting crisscross on the bed, flailing about crazily—kicking off the blankets and sheets, making weird grunting noises, balling up my hand in an attempt to make it smaller—trying to get my fat hand out of the handcuffs. I sat, tugging at the chain with my left hand; even biting it a few times.

After about a minute, I finally ran out of breath and gave up.

There was another long silence, and after my rapid breathing had subsided, I hesitantly picked up my head to look in the direction of the boy.

He just stared at me from the fuzzy floor, sitting with his knees to his chest.

His eyes looked wide—almost, innocent—and his lips were parted the smallest bit. I stared at him as he returned my gaze with wide stunningly aqua blue eyes.

For the first time since I was here, he stared at me. Dirty green brown eyes full of

fright and horror met dilated blue eyes full of fear and innocence. But only for a few seconds.

"D-Don't do t-that," he was the one stammering now.

But why? I'm the one who's stuck to a bed, with absolutely no memory of how I got there!

"I just w-want to know what y-you're going to do to m-me!"

"Don't a-ask me questions," he ordered, his voice faltering. He stood up, revealing how short he was. "I c-cannot answer them."

His small—deprived of food—body made its way (quite fast, might I add) to the curtains. I watched intently as he thrust them shut; and the room filled with darkness.

I panicked and my knees met my chest as my back met the headboard, waiting to see what the boy would do.

With a few silent seconds of suspense and a small click, a light lit up the small room all by itself. It was dim, but I could easily make out chairs and bookshelves and corners.

I watched the boy as he speed-walked to the sheets I had kicked off earlier, and threw them on the bed. His bright eyes stared at the ceiling a third time, as he bit his lip. He then directed his stare to the door, and then to me.

He reached into his jean's pocket and reappeared with a blood-stained pocket knife.

All of a sudden he took it, rolled up his sleeve the smallest bit, and cut the back of his wrist. Right in front of me—on the bed where I sat. I gasped as his blood soaked into the white sheet right next to my left arm.

"What the fuck!" I exclaimed, but he just ignored me.

The boy then rolled down his sleeve, threw the knife onto the desk, and threw the blanket over my face.

"P-Please do not m-move," he sputtered, looking at the ceiling and then running over to the chair in the corner of the room.

I did as I was told, despite the extra heat that the heavy blanket added to my sweating body; scared he'd cut me if I didn't.

"Why the hell did you just cut yoursel—"

Bang! went the door, interrupting me.

A large figure stumbled in, faltering from side-to-side.

I watched silently from a hole in the blankets as the man waddled his way to the boy. "What was th-th-that noise?" His accented voice asked, anger quite visible.

The six-foot-something man stared directly down at the black-haired boy, while he suddenly became interested in his shoes. His hair hung like a neat mop over his face, as he mumbled something I couldn't quite make out.

"Speak up, you fag," spat the man, and the boy flinched.

"I explained the r-rules and he's on the b-bed,"

"Is he passed out or dead?"

The boy gasped slightly, stepping backwards. "Neither s-sir," he said after a moment too late.

His small body shook vigorously—obviously scared out of his mind.

Suddenly, there was a loud popping sound as his large hand met the boy's terrified face.

I gasped from the blankets, not expecting that in the least.

"I told you to kill him before it's too late!" The angry voice boomed as it kicked the boy's fragile body onto the floor.

"I'm s-sorry," his small, crackling voice called from the floor.

"You're worthless, Veneziano." The man grabbed the boy—Veneziano?—by his hair, pulling him up to his feet. "Maybe I should hire him instead of you."

One last punch in the boy's gutless stomach, and a malicious "he better be dead by Friday," as the man walked out of the closed door—leaving Theodore grabbing his ribs in immense pain.

Friday.

And then the small, abused boy collapsed onto the floor...all by himself.

Silence.

A third time.

By now I was shaking just as much as Veneziano. I was too scared to come out of the blankets.

I was drenched in sweat; thoughts racing through my head—most involving the beaten boy on the floor.

That's how it was for a few minutes, until I felt the heavy blanket being lifted from me.

Without even a glance or an explanation, the small boy trudged over to the chair he was sitting on previously. And he just sat there, as he drew his knees to his chest and buried his face into them.

No sobs, no cries, no shrieks and not a single word was spoken.

Tranquility—minus the contentment.

It was like another world from what I knew. This boy obviously got abused, starved and treated like an animal while I had money and a home (at least that's what I'm guessing). How did I end up here—what have I ever done to have Veneziano spilled into my life?

"What was th-that?" I suddenly asked—shocking even myself.

Silence.

"What?" Was all he said—his voice sounding calm, as if nothing had just happened.

So you made me wait two minutes for that stupid reply?

"That," I whispered, searching my vocabulary for a succinct word. "T-Thing,"

"What do you mean?" He asked me, pretending to act confused. Fake. A terrible yet pure lie.

"That!" I yelled—not quite out of rage, but rather impatience. "Explain to me why the hell I'm here—and why you are, too!"

Contact between blue and green eyes (colliding into a beautiful cyan); but words seemed to drift away into the humidity of the dreary room.

"I thought we've established this."

"What? That you can't answer me one simple question with a huge meaning?"

"It's not like that—"

"Well how long are you going to keep this from me?" A look of disgust on my angry, hot face. "Am I going to die a painful death without an explanation?"

"Look," Veneziano sighed, getting angry at my arrogance. "Your life depends on me and my life depends on this. Some questions have got to remain unanswered unless you want me to die—and if I do, I'm taking you with me—whether you, or I, like it or not."

I glared at him through slit eyes, as he bit his already bleeding lip.

"It's not my choice for you to be here. I don't want this but I'm not in control of it. If I weren't with you right now—you'd be dead. I've covered for you, and that resulted in the beating you just witnessed and the cut on my arm; can't you see that? The least you can do is respect the fact that if I answer anything too personal, he'll come back."

"So you don't even like me?" I raised a brown eyebrow.

"Please don't twist my words."

Silence.

Guilt soaked into my conscious, as I stared at the beaten emaciated body of the young boy.

"S-So your name's Veneziano?" I choked out—it was my twisted way of apologizing.

I guess he took the hint, because his voice was just as quiet as it was before our 'dispute'.

"Yes."

"How old are you?"

"Your age."


	4. Silent Music

"Here," was all I heard before something small and hard pelted me, jolting me aware and awake from my pre-sleep.

Two hours had passed since Veneziano's last word and I had nothing to do (or say) but sleep.

Temperatures were cool now. Or at least cool enough for comfort.

I looked down to see a green iPod nano greet me (earphones and all)—much too cheery a color for my qualm, dreamy frame of mind.

"Hm?" I groggily replied.

"You'll need something to do for the next two weeks,"

I stared at the bright electronic device, reaching for it with my available hand. "I thought that I was dying by Friday?"

Veneziano croaked something along the lines of 'oh, you're not.'

I scanned the old 2005-product's songs. Exactly one hundred songs were on there. That's all? I wondered.

I stuck the left earphone into my ear, but since my right hand was cuffed to the bed I sat on, I had trouble attempting putting in the right one.

I whispered profanity under my breath, but loud enough for the boy to hear it.

Before I knew what was happening, the earphone was being grabbed lightly out of my hand and put into my ear by yours truly.

At first he didn't smile; but as he caught me staring he forced an artificial one—concocted entirely out of his own monotonous efforts.

So tell me kid, don't you get tired of faking your smiles?

"Uh, don't?" I more so asked rather than stated, as I stared at him with confusion and a dirty look.

"You needed help," he explained, sitting down at the edge of the bed.

You're wrong.

"No I didn't. I'm eighteen years old and completely capable of putting an earphone in myself,"

Veneziano sighed and shook his head, along with his brown hair.

"I was just..." he started, abruptly stopping to look up at the ceiling, and then back at me. He has adopted an annoying habit of that. "...trying to help."

A scoff. "I didn't need it."

I seemed to notice Veneziano's bright eyes matched the iPod's lime green almost perfectly. He seemed to almost...blush? as he met my stare. And as if my eyes were going to pierce him, he looked down at his lap and bit his lip—like he always seemed to do.

I may have only known this boy for a single day, but already I've noticed his fear of eye contact.

"It was mine," said eyes rested themselves upon the musical device in my southpaw.

I looked down at it also, with no interest—my mind was elsewhere. "Was?"

Hesitation.

"W-What kind of music do you like?"

It bothered me that he blew off my question, but my fogged head seemed to let it go—which was unusual for me.

"I'm kind of into punk-pop and rock," lips moving—but without my brain's consent.

Veneziano's face lit up the smallest bit "like...Mayday Parade?"

My dirty eyes wandered the room. I noted string lights and varieties of candles.

"I suppose so," I half-mindedly replied; my attention on the mysterious room more so than the conversation.

"I, uh...I like them" the boy's half-smile faded as he glanced up and noticed I wasn't fully into the conversation, "they're...they're, uh. They're on there." He motioned to the iPod with his head.

I noticed a lava-lamp that sat on the bedside table to my left. With a smile, I realized that I wasn't crazy—it was the blue and pink light that I had saw earlier.

"Oh," a half-hearted reply right before I abruptly became aware of the conversation I was in. I shook my head, blonde hair slapping me, and triple-took Veneziano's usual face; bit lip, eyes pointed downwards, hair-covered forehead.

"Oh!" I exclaimed (a little louder than planned), earning the boy's emerald-colored stare. "Wait, what were we talking about?"

Silence.

I stared at him and he stared at his lap, fidgeting with his fingers.

"N-Nothing," his stare adjusted towards the desk he sat at earlier.

Why did I say I liked Mayday Parade? I don't even know who they are!

I scanned the iPod's playlist—and as promised, the words 'Mayday Parade' were there.

I glanced up to smile at Veneziano and show him that I had found the band, but instead I saw the boy lying on the small couch.

As he lie there, back to me; I realized that something seemed to bother me. I hadn't even noticed the boy get up. I wasn't quite sure why it bothered me—maybe I wanted him to stay on the bed with me? Or maybe that his bone-thin body hadn't even made a dent as it sat down?

I sighed to myself as I stared at him lying on the couch. I barely knew him, but he seemed as if he cared a lot about me.

I turned my attention back to the iPod. There were a lot of songs on there (sixty-five-percent of them by Mayday Parade) of which I hadn't ever heard of. I decided on the song 'Terrible Things', before leaning back against the headboard and closing my eyes.


	5. Fourteen Days

If Veneziano hadn't kept me in tune with the date, I would have never known that it had been a full fourteen days since I awoke in this strange room. I had survived through Friday like Veneziano said, and it was now Sunday—two weeks after I had met the boy.

All the while I had nothing to do but sit here...chained to this bed.

I spent most of my wasted time talking to Veneziano, but then time would repeat itself back into its redundant actions. I'd ask the boy a question, he'd refuse to answer, I'd get mad at him, yell, and then shut him out of my eardrums with all one-hundred over-played songs.

The only time I got to get away from the queen-sized bed was when nature called.

Veneziano would snap off the cuff secured to the bed, snap it onto the towel rack in the bathroom and let me do whatever I intended to do. When I was done, I went straight back to the bed.

I had the perfect chance to escape; I could beat the 5'2", 76 pound boy down with ease. But for some reason I never did. I never had the desire to.

This life was all I had now—every person I used to know, and every memory of the past were all gone. It was just Veneziano and I. The only things that I remembered, the only things that made me feel secure. If I did escape—if I did beat the boy I've come to know even more than he already receives—I wouldn't know what to do. Where to go? I wouldn't remember my own name if he hadn't told me.


	6. What had I done?

I hadn't seen much of the man. And when I did, he was usually too drunk or intoxicated to give a damn about my lungs still functioning. He usually focused on Veneziano.

Veneziano, Veneziano, Veneziano.

Why? I constantly asked the beaten boy, and mentally myself—knowing I'd never get a reply.

He doesn't do anything but what he's told. The only time he's disobeyed the man is so that I could keep my life.

I grew hatred towards the man's familiar voice and the sarcasm of his French words. Most of the time he'd take Veneziano out of the room into whatever lied beyond that door that I stared longingly at for the past three-hundred-and-thirty-six hours. I didn't need to wonder about what happened. I heard it all, desperately attempted to drown it out by Derek Sander's lovesick words, or David Schmitt's feminine voice. Kyle Even could drown out the yelling; but not the engraved image of Veneziano's bloody face afterwards.

Veneziano never seemed to scream, but the man swore at him a hell of a load.

And it hurt. A lot.

I've never felt this kind of pain. It was like a numbing pain that crying didn't repair. I wanted to help the boy, console him or even be his secret keeper. But all he did was smile that fake smile, and say the same thing over and over (and over).

'I'll be fine.'

I had a feeling I wasn't the only one who knew that was a lie.

Veneziano spoke so softly, like nothing was wrong; and that fake smile of his could fool all of the three blind mice.

But I was having trouble finding out if internal or external failure would be the death of him.

A paradox. That's what you are, kid. A fucking walking paradox that's driving me insane.

"Truth or dare?"

"W-What?"

"I won't be unreasonable," I whispered, glancing at the boy's pocket knife on the desk across from the bed, where he seemed to throw it each time when he was done with self-mutilation.

"Uhm..., dare?"

I just knew he'd pick that, whilst secretly hoping—no,pleading—that he wouldn't. I sighed loudly as I let my eyes wander onto his small body sitting formally on the love-seat. He stared at me before turning away, a blush splattered across his pale cheeks.

Eye contact never hurt anyone but the kid in the haunted house, you know.

"Skip." I said, plainly. I simply had no dares for the boy. "Your turn,"

"Oh, I, uh—"

"Truth," I quickly and emotionlessly interrupted, knowing he was trying to get out of it.

Silence.

My eyes fixated onto the boy, as he looked straight at the bookshelf to my far left.

Slowly, he got up off of the small couch and made his way to the bed. His feet shuffled against the carpeted floor, and I watched until I felt the bed indent so lightly that you needed a microscope to see it.

"Is it true..." Veneziano whispered, sitting down at the end of the bed. "That you don't remember...anything?"

He slid closer to me, staring at my white v-neck. He seemed lost and unaware of what he was doing. But the twisted thing was that I didn't care.

I swallowed around the lump in my throat as I stared down at him inching closer and closer...and closer...

"Absolutely nothing," I whispered, my breath hitting Veneziano's face. He closed his eyes slowly and at first I thought he was blinking, but they didn't open back up.

I swallowed again, even harder, and then without thinking I leaned in.

My chapped lips hovered over the boy's busted, quivering pair before I gripped his head with my free hand and deepened the completely wrong homosexual kiss.

He winced for some reason and flashed his eyes open.

"L-Ludwig," he pleaded into my mouth, causing me to smirk and push his head into mine.

He tried to say something, but it echoed into my throat becoming muffled. And suddenly I felt some sort of liquid drip onto my tongue.

I pulled away and the first thing I noticed was Veneziano's face. His eyes were shiny and about to leak a tear or two, and crimson liquid dripped from his lip. It took a minute before it all registered. Before I could even contemplate what had transpired, Veneziano whispered "I shouldn't have..." before cupping his hand over his lip and running to the bathroom, leaving me confused.

...

What had I done?


	7. The Game

You damn homosexual bastard; he wasn't moaning your name, he was in pain—you hurt him!

Let alone that you're a boy and so is he...and you just kissed him after knowing him for only two weeks! What is wrong with you? You're not gay, you like girls and only girls!

I tried to face-palm with my right hand but instead I ended up tugging at the handcuffs and hurting my wrist.

I stared at the closed bathroom door, light shining out from under it. He's been in there for fifteen solid minutes without a single sound.

I pondered what happened...but still didn't quite get all of it. I came to the conclusion that he's used to taking everything; he never stands up for himself—and that was why he didn't push me away.

But...I couldn't be gay. No, that was wrong. Incorrect. Completely against the laws of nature.

But why did I kiss him? Why did I hurt him and just lose myself into the moment? Why won't he come out?

I hated this! I wanted to scream at him to open the door but I didn't have the heart to. I wanted desperately to talk to him—explain it was all a mistake.

A mistake that I liked.

While I waited, I took in everything in the room (for about the thirtieth time since I had arrived.) Two solid, non-stop weeks in the small room gives you plenty of time and more to observe everything absolutely clearly and remember it, too.

[Two doors sat on each side of the desk that sat directly across from the bed. The door on the right side was the bathroom door, where Veneziano had disappeared into. The one on the left was that one the man threw Veneziano's unconscious body through, when he was done with the abuse. The couch that Veneziano slept on sat against the wall to my right, and I often observed him as he slept. Beside the couch was some sort of treasure box thing, containing unknown items. The hard thing I had leaned on when I had first arrived. Small night stands were on each side of the bed, a normal reading lamp on the right and a lava-lamp on the left. On the wall also to my left, right beside the only window, stood a bookshelf containing dozens upon dozens of books.

Veneziano seemed to read the books often, selecting a new one each day.

The floor was fuzzy, dark brown carpet and walls were dark wood; as in real tree bark. That kind that's smoothed out and looks professional.]

The room was cozy, small and crowded—and it was all I remembered. Veneziano had often shared stories with me about my life back at home, saying that I was rich, living in a mansion so big that I lost myself daily.

I enjoyed the stories, picturing in my imagination—like little kids do when told a bedtime story—everything he told me. My smiling mother and protective father standing in front of my huge white, four story mansion. But that was just my imagination.

How he knew all of this was beyond my thinking.

My eyes immediately turned towards the bathroom door as it flung open (causing me to jump so hard the cuff tugged at my wrist), revealing Veneziano's brown, dirty, messy mop of hair. Looking down at his broken shoes, as always.

I had no idea Veneziano was that strong. And so I stared, wide-eyed as he made his way to the desk a mere three steps to his right.

He stared at the wall—lifelessly. His back was to me, but I could still tell his hand was fidgeting with the lip that was previously bleeding.

"Ve-Veneziano?" I choked out, hoarsely. I knew he didn't want to face me, but the kiss that happened had still not fully registered in my mind. I wanted to ask him what happened; why I hurt him and tell him that I was sorry. I didn't want the boy to cry because of me. Hell, I didn't want him to cry at all. But still—despite everything I hoped and every time I lied through my teeth and told him that it'd all be okay—he cried. It didn't mean he was a baby, and I knew that. It meant that instead of yelling or breaking things he cried his feelings out. He broke down in the small room as I watched him sit in the fetal position, not daring to make a peep or let me see the many tears—but I still knew. Cellophane was the boy as he cried into his knees so silently.

"Your turn," a surprising nonchalant version of the boy's voice made me flinch.

I looked up to see Veneziano; chair turned to face me.

"Huh?" I asked, a bit taken back.

"The...game."

"Oh," I replied, shocked at the bipolar twist in his attitude.

I mentally chuckled, finding it funny that Veneziano needed 'approval' to pick one of the game's limited options. "Truth or dare?"

The boy looked down, trying to hide his blush. "T-Truth," he answered, very silently.

Wait.

What?

Oh.

Oh!

He was really actually picking the dreaded truth?

He indicated that he noticed the shocked expression on my face, even before I did, by the giggle he choked out.

Veneziano actually...

Giggled.

Smiled.

He half motherfucking laughed.

I couldn't help my open jaw and unblinking tired eyes.

Veneziano's expression had changed back to the lifeless one I became used to as he played with the hem of his black shirt...but I still couldn't get that giggle and smile out of my head. It was...cute...

No. I can't like boys. Please, no. Don't do this to me.

"Why..." I barely replied, shoving my thoughts and [possible crush] aside for the moment. I couldn't waste any time where Veneziano was actually willing to open up to me. "...do you cut yourself?" I sputtered, deciding that it wasn't too out of the boy's inner circle, or out of range for my curiosity's satisfaction.

Veneziano turned his small frame towards the desk, grabbing the pocket knife and twirling it around in his hand. "It's a cover up." That mumble of his made it hard to make out.

"What?"

A sigh escaped the boy's chapped lips, "I do it so that he thinks the blood is yours." Venom in the boy's voice, but also extreme fear in his eyes as he said the word 'he'. "I don't want to hurt you."

"...and so you hurt yourself?" I interrupted quietly, barely enough for him to hear my words. I knew he wouldn't admit it himself, but he silently nodded as he played with the knife.

I cause him to cut himself so he doesn't have to hurt me? God, this boy sure knows how to make me feel terrible. I slowly uncovered the blankets, revealing the very first blood stain Veneziano had made; the first time I watched the whole horror film that was this boy's life play out right before my eyes.

Why was I so mean to him? Why did I always yell at him and get so mad easily? I hated myself for that...especially now when I look back at his black, blue and pale face and the fear in his eyes. His weak, pitch black hair that the sunlight never seemed to notice as it fumbled into the room. He wasn't glowing; not at all. I wasn't sure if it was the beating, lack of food, lack of hygiene...or all mixed together in unison.

"Uhm," I cleared my throat abruptly, probably scaring the boy. "Truth."

Of course, as always, the boy had to wait a few seconds—going as long as a full three minutes—before he replied. So much in that small mind of his going on, I think he struggled with everyday talking. "Are you h-hungry?"

And then it hit me. I wish he hadn't asked that. My stomach ached for food, leaving me with a fatigued feeling I've never had. Inanimate objects didn't shape-shift into my favorite foods like cliché cartoons led on, but I could taste my very last meal in my salivating mouth.

My stomach hurt, exploding into pure starvation and then leaving me with a feeling as if I was never hungry over and over. No, I wasn't hungry...I was starving.

The last meal I remember myself eating was a piece of bread he had given me on Thursday. But that was three days ago. Maybe three days was nothing for Veneziano—but I, on the other hand, couldn't take it.

The boy fed me, usually whenever he could and I guess I didn't whine for more because I knew he needed it more than I did.

"Very," I breathed, trying not to sound desperate—but I failed miserably by the extreme want in my voice.

A few minutes without a reply, and I realized that the boy wasn't going to say anything more.

I looked back at the past few days and remember that Veneziano had only used the knife when he needed to, and that he always put his blood next to me which I had found disgusting until this moment.

But still, things didn't click. Who was the man to Veneziano; why was I here; why did the man

always take Veneziano's word for it that I was hurt, rather than looking at me himself?


	8. Remember!

There was a long silence. Very long.

Veneziano had made his way onto the couch, and was now reading a book to himself. I tried to read the cover earlier, but it was plain green and written in Italian.

By now he had been reading for about an hour, and I had curled into a ball on the bed...drifting off into sleep. Something I've been doing an awful amount these days.

I was almost successful...but then I heard four words that made me jolt awake and instantly become confused and desperate for an elaboration.

"He doesn't remember me."

In a perfect, clear whisper they were spoken. So quiet that I wasn't even sure if Veneziano knew he had said it. Stutter free and said so fearlessly.

My eyes fluttered open, though I didn't move. My back was turned to the boy, he probably didn't even know if I was awake or not. With those four words, I even began to doubt reality.

I wasn't sure what to do or say. I didn't know if it was a statement meant to be replied to or an accidental mental outburst—but regardless, it still affected my entire body.

I felt compelled to reply, talk, say somefreakingthing, but I couldn't. My lips wouldn't move.

Come on Ludwig, talk! Use your words! Now!

But I couldn't—and that's what mocked me.

And then suddenly a wave of exhaustion fell over me; dragging me by the feet to dreamland, as my fingernails left nail marks on the ground.

Medium sized gray rocks aligned a neat circle as once blue eyes stared blankly at the ashes in between. The eyes weren't blue at the moment, though. There was a reddish reflection and an evil tint filled with sorrow that made the eyes grow as black as the night sky.

Pure hatred written in the boy's eyes as they stared at the faint spark of red; his nose breathing heavily in the aroma of burnt memories.

"Get over it," the man with the cigarette cocked to the left side of his mouth hissed as he threw in the lit match, causing the ashes to erupt into the sky—right in front of those aqua blue eyes.

"Your own fucking son? R-Really?" The stutter accidental, completely produced out of the boy's immense fear he was [trying] to hide.

But the boy was caught in the moment and would go as far as death to save the last bit of his only comfort—even though the photographs of his long-gone boyfriend, and murdered brother already now just mere ashes, fluttering into the sky without a trace.

"Kid pissed me off, an you ain't nothin' but a fag. Looks like they're all gon'; your little queer of a boyfriend, your brother, and your good-for-nothin' mother. An so that jus' leaves you in my way now—right, Luddy?" The boy watched as his father's drunken figure stalked towards him with that same knife. "Do ya 'member this part?"

Yes, the boy did. He remembered the day as he watched his brother die right before his dark eyes.

Then it finally hit the boy. The danger of his life.

The boy wanted to die, sure. To end the pain this man put him through and the endless nightmares of watching as the same man had stabbed his only brother with that same knife to death—but that boy with the brown hair and stunningly alive emerald eyes kept him going. The small hope that he'd soon find his missing boyfriend gave him the courage to stay alive through the day and through the verbal abuse this constantly drunken man gave to him.

And so the boy started running.

I woke up gasping, choking and sputtering for oxygen. Everything came back to me now. My name, my father, that Sunday afternoon when I got kidnapped, my brother's cruel death right in front of me, my mother, and even—Veneziano.

We had grown up together our entire lives, and started dating at thirteen (him a year younger than I).

Then there was that one day...scarred, burned and engraved into my brain. That cold, winter February morning two years into our indestructible relationship.

I remember waking up and walking into the living room only to find the second worst news I had ever heard on the television's screen.


	9. Ti amo Ludwig

Last one guys ;w;

* * *

"Fourteen year old Veneziano Vargas was reported missing yesterday afternoon,"

I remember dropping my toothbrush as everything played in slow motion and my immediate thought was 'this cannot be true.'

But it was.

I remember falling to my knees and questions running through my head as I became dizzy. I remember the last time I ever looked into the boy's beautiful eyes.

Two years. Seven-hundred and thirty some days later I found him again. Or, he found me when I awoke completely memory-less to him speaking some foreign language.

I immediately sat up in the bed, suddenly fully awake with a feeling of eagerness, confusion and nausea mixed.

"Veneziano,"

He looked up from his French book before he set it aside and sat up straight, stealing glances at my face whenever I looked away.

"I remember now." I breathed, "everything. You; me; my dad. Why I was running, what had happened before. Please, now. Fill in the blanks."

But he didn't. And so I sat there in awkward silence, waiting for his reply. I eyed him as his pupils grew abnormally large and he dropped his book onto the floor.

"E-Everyth-th-thing?" He stuttered, biting his lip.

I nodded yes, before silently whispering "why did you lie?"

Veneziano's eyes looked up, back down, and then at me. I was the one avoiding the glance now.

He let out a small slow sigh, and hiccupped while doing it.

"I didn't want to hurt you. I wanted you to think you actually lived a nice, full and successful life. The least I could do for leaving you with that shitface father of yours for two years."

I nodded silently. "Why did you leave me?"

"I didn't want to. What happened was unexpected and out of my control. I tried everything to get back to you but I couldn't. I needed you just as much as you needed me, Ludwig. But we just could not have each other."

I smiled weakly. For some reason I couldn't quite smile a real smile at the moment—something felt wrong, and the atmosphere was still...like something bad was about to happen.

"Story time?" I asked, and he forced a smile before taking a deep breath.

"On the day that I left you, my parents' divorce papers were finally settled, and my father (my brother's step-father) was leaving behind his family the next day. That very night I awoke to my brother handcuffing me with the handcuffs you're wearing now, throwing me in his car along with the iPod that I gave you, and dragging me to here...to escape from the divorce and the fighting. He was nineteen at the time, and sick of being left by his two fathers'...so he took me since I was all he had left. He went a little overboard at first, by locking all doors from the outside so that I couldn't get out to see you. He dyed his hair so that he wouldn't get recognized when he went out in public to get food, books and everyday essentials—while I suffered here, alone. He didn't have much money; but he did bring me a meal daily, and we became quite close since he was all the interaction I had."

I stared at my old boyfriend, taking in the entire story as he explained it to me, occasionally stopping for my nod of approval. All the while he spilled out everything, he bit his lip and forced back tears of his dreaded memories.

"Please Veneziano, everything." I softly ordered with a sincere nod.

With a sigh, he continued. "One day, after the entire 'two boys missing' thing blew off some year and a half later, something snapped in my brother. He began becoming highly involved in drugs and soon was on a constant high, wasting all of our food money." I mentally cringed at the word 'drugs'; remembering my father.

"He limited my already small living area—so that instead of being able to roam the entire house, I was only allowed in here from now on. He became obsessed with me and scared that I'd leave him; and so he went as far as installing cameras in the corner above you so he knew everything I did while he was out or in the other rooms." So that was why he always looked up and then back down. "He didn't want me to leave like the two different men we both called father, and plus he wasn't ever in control of his own body; the drugs were. So that he started hitting me and growing hatred for me. I guess the euphoria of the drugs and the feeling of finally being in control for once in his life made him continue to; every day for six months."

I remembered the time, some two years ago, where the boy's hair and face used to glow like his

shining eyes—but now they were nothing but rotting skin ready to give up—much like the boy himself.

"I tried to escape, but the lack of food I got wouldn't let me break down doors, and the window is made with that glass-metal they use in mental institutions. I've been in this room for an entire two years with nothing but the window. Two weeks ago while my brother was sober, he saw you running. I don't know why you were running, and neither did he...but he decided to kidnap you and bring you here so that I'd have a reason to stay. After you were out cold and lying on the floor, he explained to me that there was a condition—I'd have to hurt you, daily. Or else he would. I screamed and refused, knowing you'd live hell on earth here. I wanted you so badly as I saw you lying unconscious, and I knew I could never fight my brother back when he wanted something; but I couldn't let you live here; trapped and confined for the rest of your days. But then I saw there was no turning back and I had no say in this as I watched your beautiful unconscious body. I gave it thought and saw the possible loophole—hurting myself rather than you."

A pause as Veneziano's tears stung his face an awful red.

"He pulled your hood over your eyes, grabbed you by the neck, slammed your head into a bench to the point of unconsciousness, ran off with you and then banged your head again—multiple times so you'd forget everything."

And it worked, I thought, remembering the concussion-like-headache I first had.

Silence.

I didn't know what to say. My boyfriend went through a lot of pain and suffering in the past two years.

I stared at him for a while as it all soaked in. To be honest; I'd rather live 'hell on earth' here...with my boyfriend, over living with that father of mine.

"I shouldn't be telling you this," Theodore whispered, silently...almost as if it wasn't meant to be heard by my ears.

I wanted to hug him. Embrace him. Kiss him. Tell him I was sorry over and over and over one; for forgetting him and two; for the past two years of his life that were never even his fault.

It was then that I remembered my immense, painful love for the boy. I wasn't straight. I was twisted; confused; rainbow; a 'fag'.

But that didn't matter because I loved him, and he loved me.

Veneziano slowly got up, walked to the desk and opened up a drawer before picking up a set of keys. I watched, wondering what he was doing. He turned around and started walking towards the corner of the bed, and when he got there he unlocked the handcuffs.

It took a bit for me to get what had just happened, but as I wiggled my right hand and flapped it in front of me I realized that...I was free!

"Veneziano?" I asked him. He looked down at my figure sitting on the bed.

For the first time in two years we made eye-to-eye contact for more than twenty seconds. He stared at me as I gazed at his cynical eyes.

"Y-Yes Ludwig?" He whimpered, not taking his eyes off of me as he slowly sat down next to me. I think he needed this just as bad as I did.

Reading my mind, he slowly set his lips on mine in nothing more than a peck. But it was amazing—because this time I remembered him.

"I've missed you," I whispered to him as our lips separated.

We barely had time to pull away when all of a sudden Veneziano's face drained of all color—not like he had much to begin with—and his eyes glued themselves to something behind me.

I stared at him with a cocked eyebrow as suddenly a sound echoed through the room and Veneziano's small body fell on me, then rolled onto the floor.

I just sat there on the bed for a moment; wondering what had just happened. But as I heard swearing in Italian(now I remembered the language my loves family was fluent in not the French I thought it was), I turned around and my eyes grew wide as the figure held the gun to his head.

That same sound rang through my ears a second time as the Italian man's body dropped to the floor.

And then it all dawned on me.

I screamed bloody fucking murder—which was exactly what I saw when I turned around to look down.

Veneziano was on his side, his eyes closed as slowly a red puddle began to form under him.

His brother had shot Veneziano and then himself.

But why?

Then the boy's words rang through my ears as I became dizzy.

"Your life depends on me and my life depends on this. Some questions have got to remain unanswered unless you want me to die—and if I do, I'm taking you with me—whether you, or I, like it or not."

And now that I had answers, I no longer had my love.

I screamed Veneziano's name as I hopped off of the bed and onto the carpet, just staring silently at the still boy as tears began to fall down my cheeks.

I didn't know what to do, so the only action I took was dragging Veneziano's top-half onto my lap as I gazed into his shut eyes. "Ven-Ven-ezi-zi-ano?" I stammered fiercely, beginning to cry madly.

I had my right hand on the gunshot wound, not caring about the blood flowing vehemently through my fingers.

Veneziano's eyes opened slightly; his pupils turned to me as he weakly blinked.

"P-Please don't leave m-me," I sobbed, begging the boy to say something—praying that he'd live. "Please Veneziano, please! I-I love y-y-you!"

Said boy's lips curved into the weakest smile I'd ever seen as he closed those diamond eyes of his that once shown a beautiful green I'd never forget.

I held my boyfriend as he—the only one I had left; the only one I had stayed alive for for so many pointless, wasted days—bled to death into my right hand. "Ti amo Ludwig." The boy whispered before giving up his battle.

* * *

PLEASE DON'T HATE ME ;w;


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